


Thaw

by phantomhime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Alternate Universe - Westeros, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, way too much politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomhime/pseuds/phantomhime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The grim cold of the northern climate didn't agree well with Brendol Tully. He missed the mild winters of Riverrun, where he never felt this frozen to the core.<br/>Ben Snow was a fire blazing in the icy dark of winter, not at all frigid as his name or the North he was born from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> SO this happened, I finally got around to writing this AU I've been thinking about for weeks lol.  
> I imagine this to be set quite some time before the current events of ASoIaF, during the Targaryen dynasty, maybe in some alternate timeline or something. I was actually planning on writing an actual chaptered story in this setting about the two of them leading a rebellion to usurp the king, which explains all the political bullshit in the beginning lol. Might continue it, I'll see.

The journey to Winterfell had been long and tedious. They had been traveling north for more than a month and a half, seeing the trees gradually lose their leafy shrouds to expose naked branches and the ground growing whiter and whiter with snow. Brendol loathed traveling, being shut away in a carriage for weeks on end made him feel like he was losing his mind with boredom and prolonged sedentarism. As he grew older, his father was bringing him along to more and more of his affairs, all in the name of teaching his only son how to be a worthwhile Lord. Brendol did not mind the politics, had a natural affinity for it even, but the prolonged traveling was certainly not entertaining to him. That unlike his sisters, who seemed to adore seeing the new lands and acquiring local clothing every time they were allowed to join. They were excited even during the endless traversing of frozen wastelands, teasing each other with supposed sightings of direwolves and white walkers through the carriage windows. Brendol laughed fondly to himself at their gleeful bickering; he cared deeply for his sisters, perhaps more than he let on sometimes. 

The reason for the entire Tully family entourage to make the extensive trip was a wedding, what else. Brendol’s younger sister, Agnese, was to be wed to the eldest Stark son Edwyn. A marriage orchestrated for the cause of strengthened ties between House Tully and House Stark, a way to further secure the areas and trade routes between the North, the Trident and the Riverlands. It would be a fruitful arrangement for both, one Brendol’s father had proposed to Lord Stark, a man he held respect for – respect that was hard earned from Brendol the elder. Edwyn Stark was yet unmarried at twenty-five years of age, a not entirely unquestioned fact. His marriage was long overdue, especially so due to his status as heir to Winterfell. Agnese Tully was a well-suiting consort; having just passed her seventeenth name day, she was well due for marriage to a respectable lord. Edwyn and Agnese had never met, but Brendol was sure she should not be disappointed with her chosen spouse. He had met Edwyn a year past during negotiations with House Frey at the Twins – he was a handsome man, if not a little rugged, tall and broad with a dignified demeanor. Brendol suspected his other little sister Elysa would be jealous as ever of her older sister’s wedding and stately husband. She was only thirteen, but already growing into a beautiful young maid like her sister. The women of his family were all comely, his mother still a beauty even at her ripening age. Like most all Tullys they were red of hair with green eyes, fair skin adorned with freckles. Brendol himself looked every bit the splitting image of his Lord father; lean build and a serious demeanor that aged him beyond his twenty-two years. Standing neither remarkably tall nor short, he nevertheless imposed respect upon others, who tended to regard him as a trustworthy man worthy of high regard. His auburn hair was kept neatly cut and combed to the side, and he was always well-dressed in fine garb befitting his status as an ambitious lord-to-be. Because Brendol Tully was nothing if not ambitious. His father was of an age, and neither Brendol the elder nor the younger had any delusions about the inevitable. Brendol was well prepared to take over the role as Lord of Riverrun at a moment’s notice, his father had made sure of that much. Since a young age, Brendol had studied meticulously, and excelled in both theoretical and practical subjects. Brendol enjoyed reading – over the years he developed an interest in military strategy, and despite there having been peace in the Seven Kingdoms for over two decades, he sometimes longed for there to be an opportunity to employ his skills. His father often commended his fine mind and will to learn, allowing his son to spend time studying subjects that would otherwise be deemed of little use, such as the arts and the language of High Valyrian. Had he not been the eldest son and heir, no doubt his father would have sent him away to King’s Landing or one of the Free Cities to become a maester or other man of stature, to give him an opportunity to use his extraordinary intelligence. Brendol had never traveled further south than Duskendale, he had never even had opportunity to visit King’s Landing. He wondered sometimes what the summers would be like in Lys, Volantis or Braavos. If winter there even saw snowfall. Certainly, it would never get as frigid as Winterfell during autumn.

The grim cold of the northern climate didn’t agree well with Brendol. He had only ever lived through two winters – a long one that came when he was a child, and a shorter but harsher which was the latest one to consume Westeros. That was several years past now, and soon, it would be winter again. The Riverlands had not yet seen snowfall, but here in the North, it was heavy already; just as harsh as the deepest of midwinter back in Riverrun, which generally saw mild winters. Brendol could scarcely understand how people could live and survive in places with such relentless climates – while he was shivering to the bone in the cold even inside, the Starks seemed nary affected at all, wrapped up in their thick furs and leathers. They were a grim kind, the Starks. All pale and dark of hair, faces seemingly aging more rapidly over the years in the unforgiving environment. Brendol guessed that it was inevitable when one grows up in a place where the snow falls even during Summer. The men were tall, so too the women, all carrying themselves with some kind of ancient regality, despite their more utilitarian clothing. They seemed humorless at first, but warmed up quickly enough with some wine in their systems, thawing their icy demeanors to reveal the gruffly joking interiors. At the arrival of the Tullys into Winterfell the welcome was warm to an extent, but the night’s festivities that followed the official wedding documentations and negotiations were lively and inviting. The halls were decked in fine food and wine, no expenses spared even before the true wedding celebration that was to follow in the next day. Brendol was seated at the honorary table with the families, of course, in between his father and his uncle, Edgar Tully. Edgar was a bitter man, not at all content with being dragged along to yet another wedding. Brendol guessed he would rather be back in Riverrun drinking his days away in the company of unsavory ladies as usual. His uncle certainly didn’t hold back on the wine, and Brendol could only hope he would be spared the usual moral lessons and advice his uncle always seemed to be willing to impose on him when he was drunk.

Opposite Brendol sat Lord Stark’s second eldest son, Bradd Stark. He was around the same age as Brendol himself, with short dark hair and a bearded face – probably grown to disguise any lingering traces of boyishness. A quiet man, he didn’t speak unless spoken to. He struck Brendol as a competitive man, one who craves a responsibility he is not ready for; his brother was much better suited to become lord, but like some men are, Bradd probably had troubles accepting such.

The rest of the table was a mix of Tully and Stark, red and black. Lord and Lady Stark were at the middle, opposite Lord and Lady Tully; to their right, the young soon-to-be wed couple seated across from one another, talking about something Brendol could not hear over the loud murmur. The last Stark child was seated next to her eldest brother, picking at her food in silence. The youngest of the three, Lina Stark was a slight girl, thin and with a peculiarly sharp face. Not a traditional beauty by any means, but nevertheless possessing a unique sort of appeal if one could see past her cold frown. As much could probably be said for most of the Northeners – their faces were like frozen in scowls for most of the time when they were not actively engaged in conversation. It made Brendol wonder whether it might have been the result of being perpetually cold for one’s entire life.

While absent-mindedly cutting his venison roast, Brendol looked around over the inhabitants of the hall. Bannermen and lesser members of the House Stark were laughing and drinking in good spirits, benches filled to the brim around the long tables. The mass of people in the halls did little to warm them though, a chilly draft creeping in from outside and making Brendol shiver in his thick navy brocade jacket. It was one of his finest garments, commissioned from a Dornish tailor and adorned with a small silver crest of the Tully trout on the breast pocket. Even if he was not overly happy to have travelled so far for a wedding, it did please him to have a rare opportunity to wear it.

Uncle Edgar and Lord Stark were engaged in a discussion over the table, something about the Karstarks – loyal Stark bannermen – and their newly appointed young lord. Brendol wouldn’t say he was bored, although he was currently out of conversation and the wine was taking to his head – lightweight as he was – making it hard to keep his focus. His eyes kept flittering about over the room, studying the different people. And there, Brendol saw him. 

Ben Snow was Lord Stark’s bastard son, that much most everyone knew. Brendol knew so too of course, had seen the man briefly at their arrival to Winterfell, lurking in the background. It had been quite the talk, that Lord Stark was keeping his bastard so close to his family and trueborn children – but none would question the Lord’s reasoning. Knowing this, it didn’t surprise Brendol overmuch that Ben was present at the festivities; though not seated at the high table with the Starks, instead at the edge of a nearby long table along with knights, distant relatives and lesser house bannermen. Brendol tried his best to force his gaze away, his prolonged staring was unbecoming of him. But for some reason only the Gods knew, he could hardly tear his eyes off the bastard Stark son. Ben was a large young man, tall and dark of hair like his father; it was swept back from his face and kept long, just brushing his broad shoulders. He sat slightly hunched over, as if to distance himself from the rest of his family’s proud, straight ways of sitting. Much like Brendol himself, he was not particularly involved in the conversation around him, picking at his food in a way that could have been interpreted as childish. His pale face was smattered with freckled spots, the nose long and lips full, contributing to an oddly unbalanced facial structure that should not have been as intriguing as it was to Brendol.

Brendol had always been aware of his… predispositions. Women had never held much of an appeal to him, he longed neither to lay with them or to marry one. They were too soft to the touch, and their slightness and passivity woke no desire in him. No, what Brendol desired was to feel firm muscles under his hands, to be matched in dominance and control. When the situation allowed, he took on lovers who he could trust, for long enough to sate his needs without rousing too much suspicion. Even so, he held no disillusions about marriage – Brendol was well aware that he would marry a suitably highborn lady one day, and he would be expected to produce heirs. And with his ripening age, that day probably laid close at this point. He would be lying if he claimed it did not cause him slight discomfort to think of having to bed a woman, but it would not stop him from fulfilling his duty to his father and House Tully. As they always had since he was but a boy, the words of House Tully rang strong in his mind: _Family, Duty, Honor._ His particular inclines would not hinder his duties as long as he was wise and cautious about them. Brendol had a slight suspicion that his father knew about his preferences, but kept silent about them, much as Brendol himself did. It did not bother him overmuch that his father might know, as long as they kept up their good relations. _Every man has his vice_ , as his uncle Edgar so often said. Brendol’s just happened to be _men._

-

The Godswood of Winterfell was an intriguing place, and Brendol had much looked forward to having a chance at wandering through it upon visiting the castle. Having had excused himself from the festivities just a little while earlier, Brendol thought it would be a good opportunity to get some air and clear his head before retreating to his room for sleep. His head was heavy from the many cups of wine, but he was otherwise quite content. Soft moonlight fell through the branches of the trees, reflecting off the snow to illuminate the small woods encased within the castle walls. It fascinated Brendol, the way these woods were still used to pray to the old Gods of the Forest, a foreign religion to him. Even now, the Northeners still practiced their ancient religion, whilst the rest of Westeros had long since adapted to the teachings of the Faith of the Seven. The old gods and the new were different, and to a midlander like himself, the old forest religion seemed part incomprehensible, part primitive. No rituals, no sermons, no septons or septas – only some kind of ancient connection to the gods of trees, stone and earth through these Godswoods. Brendol couldn’t claim to understand it at all, despite his studying of it in the libraries of Riverrun with the Maester. Even so, he had deigned to visit this wood at the chance. If nothing else, the large, looming weirwood tree at the very heart of the forest was a sight to behold. Blood-red leaves rustled with the wind, and the face carved into the white trunk was both magnificent and unnerving to behold in its ancient immortality. This was the heart tree - the one deity the worshipers might pray in front of. A cold pool of black water laid in front of it, covered now by a film of thin ice. 

Watching the snow fall gently over the Godswood, Brendol could have stood there until his toes froze in the biting cold. The old forest was full of soft noise – branches creaking and leaves shivering, somewhere in the distance a dog barked insistently. And behind him, footsteps steadily approached. Brendol turned hastily, he had not expected to have company at this hour of the night, and he hoped it was not his father or someone else who had need of him. But the man approaching was not a Tully – dressed in a thick black cloak and a dark bear pelt over his shoulders, was Ben Snow.

”Good evening,” Brendol said with a nod, and Ben returned the favor.

”Good evening, m’lord.” His voice was deep, unexpectedly so. It contrasted with his still-boyish looks. Brendol did not know exactly how old Ben was, but he knew that he was at least a few years or so younger than Brendol himself, probably making him around seventeen or eighteen. Ben was a curious mix of boy and man that was hard to place age-wise; his youthful face lacked any beard, but his height and voice suggested a more developed age. Up close, he stood half a head taller than Brendol, who was not a slight man himself.

”It’s quite a sight,” Brendol offered with a look to the heart tree, in lack of other things to say.

”It is,” Ben agreed. ”Have you seen a weirwood before? They don’t have one in Riverrun, correct?”

”Right, we don’t. The old gods don’t have much of a following down south, the Seven are the only gods we pray to now. There is an old godswood, but the heart tree was cut down long past. It’s nary more than a garden now.” Brendol thought of the godswood back home, with its airy atmosphere and lush redwoods. During summer, the entire garden bloomed with fragrant flowers, birds nesting in the trees and small fish swimming in the streams. Fond memories accompany the many childhood days spent playing amongst the bushes and tall grass. 

Ben smiled softly. ”Pardon me, m’lord, but I never did quite understand the faith of the new gods. All the rituals and rules don’t make much sense to me; I need not much else than a quiet place to pray and to know that the gods are listening when I have need of them.”

”Do you spend much time here?” Brendol inquired, keeping his eyes on Ben, even as the other looked at the aged face of the grand tree in something akin to marvel.

”I suppose I do. I come here to cleanse my mind of thoughts and worries, and the gods listen. Does not ask as many questions as others.” He said this with a half smirk that stretched his face in a way Brendol could only describe as alluring, and he couldn’t help but offer a small smile in return. 

”I believe I understand,” Brendol said, and their eyes met again.

-

Ending up in a small ground floor room in a secluded corner of the castle had never been Brendol’s intention with the night, but he could hardly stop himself when Ben had asked if he wanted to follow, and led the way back inside from the cold. They had talked for what must have been close to half an hour outside by the heart tree, until the relentless cold of the night had chilled them to the point of agony.  
The room they entered was not large, containing little more than a bed, dresser, desk and chair in the way of furnishings. It was all rustic northern pinewood designs, sturdy but not uninviting. Ben lit the oil lamp on the dresser, bathing the room in a warm glow and starting to chase the chill out of the cool air. But Brendol did not feel the cold, not when Ben pressed him against the stone wall and claimed his lips with violent fervor. His taller, broad form felt divine when he pressed up against Brendol’s slighter one, the heat of his body seeping through their clothing to warm Brendol to the bone. Their kisses were desperate, aching for the contact – Brendol had not felt this in so long, _too long_. A moan escaped him when the younger man’s rough gloved hands explored their way along his sides, the touch firm and secure. Brendol’s own hands found their way to the dark, waved tresses tangled from the wind, burying themselves amongst them and taking a firm hold – Ben groaned into the kiss and Brendol’s entire body shuddered at the glorious sound. It wasn’t long before Brendol couldn’t resist any more, he tugged at the rugged pelt and cloak covering Ben’s broad shoulders, and the younger stepped back for just long enough to pull them off, shedding leather gloves and thick jacket soon after. The clothes piled up on the stone floor, and Brendol’s own brocade jacket joined the growing heap of mixed fabrics within moments of Ben’s hands finding his torso again. Usually Brendol would be appalled at the notion of leaving such an expensive jacket unfolded on the ground; but with large hands stroking down over his hips and such sinful lips lavishing his neck with kisses, he couldn’t bring himself to care. They were both in their underclothes and pants now, but Ben soon liberated himself of his dark cotton undershirt to reveal a softly chiseled chest that almost made Brendol’s breath catch in his throat. The young man was built, well-honed and rippling with a strength hardened by the North – well grown for his age, to be sure. His sturdy large frame made an intriguing contrast to Brendol’s own slim body when they pressed up against each other; Brendol never knew he would find such pleasure in feeling small. Hungry lips found each other again, the fierce intensity making Brendol weak in his knees at the pure need radiating from the younger. It was incredibly arousing and exciting, and when Ben pulled the fine tunic over Brendol’s head and tosses it away, the heat of their bare chests against each other felt like fire on his skin.

Simply touching Ben’s smooth skin was otherworldly, and Brendol let his hands run free, exploring the hairless plane of his chest and the broad back, hard muscles shifting under the taut, pale skin. Numerous freckles and moles were scattered about his body, just like his face, and Brendol couldn’t get enough of running his hands over them. Ben’s body was divine, godlike – Brendol didn’t think he’d ever seen or touched a man this beautiful. He was so incredibly aroused, the hardness between his legs aching and throbbing with every touch. Against his thigh, he could feel Ben’s hard erection as well, and Brendol wanted to touch him; he wanted this Stark bastard so very badly, more than he had ever wanted any of his previous lovers and bedmates. This northern boy, hardly even a man yet, made the arousal flare so strongly within him, strong enough that he feared losing his composition. It had been too long since Brendol had let go and let himself indulge – and he was damned if he was going to decline this opportunity.

Ben’s hands were rough and frantic over Brendol’s naked torso, his lips ravaging the spot underneath his jawbone with kisses and bites. Brendol almost choked on a hastily drawn breath when finally, one of those amazing hands found its way to cup the hardness in his pants, squeezing gently until a throaty moan escaped Brendol involuntarily. With a final rough kiss to Brendol’s jaw, Ben dropped to his knees without warning, immediately going to work on the buttons of Brendol’s pants – he undid them swiftly, and reached in to pull out his aching erection. The warm fingers around his cock felt amazing to Brendol, and he struggled to keep his breathing level when Ben gave a few experimental strokes, keeping his dark eyes trained on Brendol’s face – Brendol himself could barely keep his eyes open, small groans flowing freely from his lips. The warmth from Ben’s breath against his erection made him shiver, and a sharp moan escaped him when Ben took the sensitive head of his cock between his full lips without warning. Brendol buried his hands in Ben’s hair again, grasping to keep himself grounded when the young man started to suck him, skilled tongue and lips working miracles on his hardness. Brendol had no way to know how experienced Ben was – if he’d ever done this with another man before – but judging from the way his tongue worked around Brendol’s most sensitive spots, he guessed this wasn’t the first time Ben had used his mouth in this fashion. It was embarrassing how fast Brendol felt himself approaching the edge, the skilled ministrations Ben administered to his erection too much to bear. Every touch, every flick of his tongue was _just_ right, as if Ben could feel exactly where Brendol was the most sensitive. The sight of his cock disappearing between those plush lips was almost enough to bring Brendol to completion, combined with the added pleasure of rough fingers teasing his tight sac. Ben’s face was gorgeous in his debauched state, his hooded eyes still fixed on Brendol’s, tousled hair falling down over them. Brendol couldn’t manage more than a choked ” _I’m going to–_ ” before he climaxed with a broken moan, keeping hold of Ben’s hair to ground himself. Ben didn’t pull awayfrom his release as Brendol expected him to, but kept sucking him dry as he rode the waves of his orgasm. When he finally pulled off, he didn’t spit out any of Brendol’s seed; the vulgar act sent a shock though him as he watched Ben swallow it.

They looked at each other as they both tried to catch their breaths, their panting the only noise spreading in the room. Ben was sitting back on his heels, proudly displaying the bulge in his dark pants. It was time for Brendol to return the favor, he decided. Bending down to take the younger by his arms, Brendol guided Ben to stand on shaky legs, directing him the short steps to the bed. With a gentle push to his chest, Ben let himself fall backwards to lie down. Brendol was upon him in seconds, claiming his lips in a heated kiss that was made no less arousing by the fact that he could taste his own seed on Ben’s lips. He wondered briefly how many men Ben had taken in his mouth, but batted that thought away. It did not matter – in any way, Brendol himself was no stranger to sharing his bed with a man. As their lips and tongues moved against each other in a passionate dance, deep and needy, Brendol made quick work of undoing the rough pants Ben wore. They were sewn of thickly woven, waxed wool – made to withstand the harsh cold of the north, but in here, they must have been far too warm. Brendol pulled them down to free the younger’s hard cock, only slightly surprised by its size. Ben was a large man, after all. He must have been achingly hard, his cock red and weeping; when Brendol took his pulsing erection in his hand he was rewarded with a deep moan from Ben, who threw his head back in bliss. Giving a few long strokes, Brendol marveled at how responsive the younger was, as if every touch was fire to his nerves. He was close to dripping already, and Brendol squeezed his foreskin at the tip until a drop of his wetness gathered in the slit. Brendol rubbed it out over the head with his thumb, and Ben’s moan was a broken half-scream that coursed like electricity through Brendol’s veins. Small sounds of pleasure tumbled from the younger’s parted plush lips, delicious in their breathiness – they muffled when Brendol pushed two fingers into Ben’s warm mouth, which were greedily accepted by him. And oh, those lips looked just as lovely with his fingers between them as his cock, Brendol mused. Ben sucked them with vigor as the older continued working his erection, eyes closed and hands struggling to find purchase on Brendol’s narrow shoulders. 

Pulling his fingers free with a lewd noise, Brendol replaced them with his lips, stealing Ben’s breath away before he had a chance to find it again. As he kissed him breathless, he lowered his hand to press a tentative touch to the opening between Ben’s legs, rubbing circles with his fingers and spreading the wetness, making Ben let out a surprised noise into the kiss. Brendol had no way of knowing if the younger had done this before, but as he carefully eased one finger inside, Ben was relaxed and his body offered little resistance. He groaned into their kiss again, hands burying in Brendol’s copper hair, thoroughly fussing up the neatly combed part. But oh, how little Brendol could bring himself to care, not when this amazingly beautiful bastard Stark son was moaning so wantonly as he eased a second finger into him, working him open with one hand and stroking his cock with the other. Breaking their kiss with reluctance, Brendol moved on down to his pale neck, painting beautiful purple bruises into the alabaster skin with his teeth as the hands in his hair tightened with pain-tinged bliss. Finally he pulled back to admire his handiwork, the blooming bruises a stark contrast, like fresh blood spilled in the snow. Like the scene of a hunt, like the aftermath of a direwolf felling a deer. Ben was that wolf, a child of the North, of the old gods and the Forest. But here he was, letting himself be tamed by someone so different to him, some midlander lordling who had never known anything like the grim Northern winter outside. Ben was warmth, so scorchingly hot, a raging fire in the darkness of this unforgiving world. And Brendol wanted to come even closer, didn’t care if he would be singed, never quite close enough. 

In the warm, softly flickering light of the oil lamp still burning on the table, Ben was beautiful. Ink-black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, eyes closed in bliss and lips parted in rapture. His perfect body glistened from their exertions, chest heaving with his deep breaths and muscles rippling with tension. It was a sordid image, one Brendol could look at all throughout the night and still not have seen his fill of Ben’s distinct, masculine allure. For now, he settled with drinking in every hissed groan as he crooked his fingers against Ben’s prostate time and time again, the shivers racking through his body revealing the intense pleasure the dual stimulations gave the younger. Had they more time, Brendol might have been inclined to lay with him, but this was more than enough for him at the moment – pleasuring the younger man in this intense way was divine. Every flick of his fingers inside Ben was like sending an electric current through him, causing him to shiver and groan and push his hips down for more; alternating between trying to meet the thrusts of the fingers inside him and the firm strokes Brendol was administering to his throbbing, hard cock.

Brendol could feel Ben approaching the edge without having to hear a word from him – the way his insides tightened around his fingers and his cock jerked in his hand revealed it clear as day. It only took a slight increase in pressure and speed of his ministrations for Brendol to push Ben into a violent climax, wrenching another raw half-scream from his throat as he spilled his warm seed over Brendol’s hand and his own stomach. The feeling of his trembling insides contracting around his fingers made Brendol think of how Ben would feel around his cock, and he found himself briefly hoping that this first time would not be their last opportunity to meet privately during the Tullys’ remaining stay in Winterfell. But for now, Brendol pushed this thought away for the future as he worked Ben through the remaining waves of his climax, milking him dry and coaxing soft, broken moans from his lips until he came down from his high. Pulling his fingers out gingerly, Brendol wiped them on the rough wool blanket covering the bed, and allowed himself to fall back on it besides Ben. The bed was too small for both of them to lie besides each other comfortably, so Brendol ended up having to lay half-way on top of the younger’s heaving chest, their sweat-slick skin hot against each other. It was almost too warm, the air of the room bearing little trace of the cold it had carried when they first entered. 

As they basked in the afterglow, Brendol tried not to think of any of the complications that could potentially arise from this illicit affair. Bedding the bastard half-brother of your sister’s husband was not an exceptional way to make himself seem respectable, he knew as much. This whole endeavor had been uncharacteristically ill-considered and foolhardy of him. Brendol usually applied at least some measure of consideration before choosing his bedmates, and he had no explanation as to why his desire for this young man had flared so violently that he had thrown all caution to the wind just to indulge. Maybe it was because of the way he had felt Ben’s want for him so clearly in the air, that they had both desired each other so badly. For the moment, Brendol resigned not to think further about those issues until morning. A certain part of his mind assured him that Ben would not prove to be a cause for concern. For some reason, Brendol believed it. Despite the risks, he did not regret their actions. Either way, he could not change anything if he had tried to. All he could do at the moment was to allow himself to revel in the heady, musky scent of Ben; the feel of thick muscles and smooth skin under his fingertips, and the heat of their bodies warming him to the core, as his uncle’s words came to his mind once again: ” _Every man has his vice._ ”

And unlike his uncle, Brendol was exceptional at keeping his indulgences secret.

**Author's Note:**

> come share sins with me on [tumblr](http://h4vtorn.tumblr.com)


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